


38.4

by museicalitea



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Ji Guang-Hong (cameo) - Freeform, M/M, Sickfic, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-19 17:23:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14878104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museicalitea/pseuds/museicalitea
Summary: “If that thing’s reading 38.4 F, there is definitely something wrong with it.”“Why do thermometers even stillhaveFahrenheit settings,” Otabek mutters as he switches the setting to Fahrenheit and jabs it back in Leo’s ear.





	38.4

**Author's Note:**

> I caved and and put down the the singular most self-indulgent thing I've ever written and I really do mean that. There are probably approximately two people who actively want to see this exact fic or some variation of it in the world and one of them is me.
> 
> Get ready. This one's a doozy.

“Beka, I’m home!”

Otabek takes a moment to turn down the heat on the element and the music on the radio before crossing the tiny kitchenette to the doorway, and he leans out ready to say hello. But the master bedroom door’s swinging half-closed even as he looks out, and he shakes his head soft to himself. He can give Leo half a minute to catch his breath from the stairs and put out his skates.

And then he sees the shoe rack right by the door, missing one pair of trainers, and narrows his eyes.

He has to get back to the stove, to make sure nothing sticks or burns, but once he’s there, pushing the food around the pan once more, Otabek takes up his phone.

 _**To: Leo de la Iglesia** _  
_Shoes off?_

Barely thirty seconds later, a photo pings back: Leo’s trainers hooked over his fingers and his socked feet wiggling in the air.

_**From: Leo de la Iglesia  
** shoes off!!!!_

_**To: Leo de la Iglesia**_  
_Five months and you still need me to remind you?  
Should I put up signs for when you come in?_

 _ **From: Leo de la Iglesia**_  
_i’m sorry i’m sorry!!!! ;w;  
bekaaaa this is the first time in like two months_

 _**To: Leo de la Iglesia** _  
_It’s the second time in two months._

 _**From: Leo de la Iglesia** _  
_omg ur actually keeping track LMAO_  
_…heck u sound exactly like guanghong_  
_he totally roasts me for it every time_

Otabek shakes his head and turns back to the stove. The rice is keeping warm in the cooker and dinner doesn’t have far to go.

 _**From: Leo de la Iglesia** _  
_yo is it ok if i take a shower b4 food?_

 _**To: Leo de la Iglesia** _  
_Of course._

He nearly puts his phone down, but pauses. He hasn’t seen Leo all afternoon.

 _**To: Leo de la Iglesia** _  
_No hug?_

A thud comes from the bedroom. He braces himself.

Seconds later, socked footsteps thunder through the kitchen and Leo’s warm, loving weight crashes into him from behind.

“There is _always_ a hug for you,” says Leo, squeezing tight. Otabek smiles, and smiles broader when Leo pecks a kiss to the nape of his neck.

“You’re home late,” he says, reaching a hand up to squeeze Leo’s. There’s quiet for a beat, and then another beat too long, cut only by the buzz of the extractor fan.

“Long gym session,” says Leo at last, too bright and dismissive for Otabek to know it’s the truth. “You know how it is.”

Otabek hums a soft affirmative. Leo’s fingers curl tighter into his jersey. He can well imagine the face Leo’s making behind him—lips pressed together, eyes averted—and swallows down the question he wants to ask. He can give Leo time to think how to say this thing he’s hiding, whatever it is.

So instead he turns, and tugs Leo in close. And this is the sight that warms his heart: dark hair slipping loose from its ponytail, and the tension in his forehead melting away, and the fondness in Leo’s face as he steps round to Otabek’s side and rests his calloused, warm fingers against his cheek. Leo’s lips are chapped as he kisses Otabek, soft, and Otabek tightens his grip around Leo’s waist. This, their bodies close and beating together, this is what he’s missed.

“Sorry, I probably smell awful,” says Leo a few seconds later, nuzzling his head into Otabek’s shoulder. “I really need to shower.”

Leo does indeed smell like sweaty workout clothes and spray-on antiperspirant, but Otabek’s knows that scent better than the back of his hand from half a lifetime of gyms and communal rink changing rooms. It doesn’t bother him.

But even so, he doesn’t relinquish his grip and Otabek knows—shower or no shower—Leo would be happy to cuddle him like this for another ten minutes; so he reaches up and gently pries Leo’s hands away.

“Go and shower, then. None of this is running away.”

“Not done hugging you,” Leo mutters as he finally lets go with another kiss. “I won’t be long.”

Otabek’s _take as long as you need_ falls silent at the tip of his tongue, and he turns back to the stovetop. It’s one of those things that Leo understands implicitly, unlike the general decorum surrounding wearing shoes in the house even if they’re _not that dirty, Otabek, c’mon!_ Leo knows he can take as long as he needs.

Likewise, Otabek knows Leo will be quick, because he’s Leo, and he won’t want to keep Otabek waiting.

True to form, Leo appears not ten minutes later, in clean clothes and flushed from the shower, and they serve themselves at the stove before coming to sit at the table. Otabek murmurs a _bismillah,_ and waits as Leo crosses himself and lowers his head. Sometimes he takes a while over grace, and on more than one occasion has told Otabek _you can just go ahead, don’t wait for me!_ But it’s only the most basic politeness to wait, and to ensure Leo can give his God whatever thanks he needs to that day. He won’t hear of starting before Leo. He has also shot down on no fewer than four occasions since they moved in together Leo’s offer to skip grace altogether.

_Your faith is important to you. This is important to you. I promise, it’s no trouble for me._

Tonight, Leo is quick; it’s only a few seconds before he crosses himself again with a soft _amen_ and looks up out of his reverie.

“You were running your programs back-to-back today, weren’t you? I caught the end of your free. Your spins are looking _sick.”_

“I nearly spewed on the ice after,” says Otabek, and Leo laughs around a mouthful of stir-fried vegetables.

“That tough, huh?”

“I don’t know what made me decide to do _six_ quads in my long but I want to make that Otabek do that quad loop after three hours of practice and see what he thinks then.”

“You did it because Yuri triple-dog-dared you and JJ and Emil to after Worlds, and honestly, you’ll be _fine,”_ says Leo, breezy and certain, as he’s always certain about Otabek. “You’re fit, and you only have to run the one program on the day and you’ll be hopped up on adrenaline anyway. It’ll be worth it.”

“It had better be,” says Otabek. Leo presses his lips together but can’t quite keep a laugh from spilling out, and it’s only then that Otabek feels the tension in his forehead, the scowl curving his lips, and considers that perhaps he’s eyeing the food on his plate rather too darkly to be normal. He makes himself eat and chew out the stress, and when his dinner plate no longer looks like his quad loop’s face, he at last feels settled enough to talk again. “You came home late. What kept you at the gym?”

“Oh… that,” says Leo. He chews slowly, and when he swallows, it’s with an air of resignation. “I… it’s… well—”

He sighs. “I went back to the rink for an hour. I’ve been thinking about revising my choreo. Wanna see if I can streamline it to fit the program better.”

This is news to Otabek.

“You’ve been having trouble with your choreography?” he asks, and he can’t keep the disbelief from his voice. Leo’s musicality is second to no one, his sense of rhythm and timing and phrasing always point-perfect, and he can capture the music in a way that brings it true to the ice. His choreography always looks right. It always feels right.

Leo shrugs. “I mean… it was working, but lately it feels like a bit much towards the end of the choreographic sequence—that final bit before the music gets quiet, you remember? I think I tried to cram too much in before my death drop, because I’m not getting good momentum going into that.”

Otabek frowns. “You’ve never had trouble on your death drops before.”

“I know.” Leo pokes at his rice, and looks shrewd in thought. “And it’s not like I’ve been having trouble with them this year, even with my knee. I’m just not getting the momentum. It feels like my legs don’t want to leave the ice, and I figured if I don’t tire myself out so much beforehand…”

Otabek thinks about it; tries to visualise Leo, weaving and spiralling and soaring across the ice in the last flourish before the music descends into fragile sunlight. And he tries to see it as too much.

“I thought your choreo at the end of that sequence looked good,” he admits, at last. “Have you talked to Nadine about it?”

“She’s been drilling me on nothing but jump technique the last two weeks, you think she’s gonna react well when I tell her I’m losing it on a jump-launched spin?” Leo shakes his head. “Nah, I’ve been doing this after-hours.”

Long hours at practice are nothing new. Extra time on the ice is necessary, and Otabek can’t forget his years in juniors, tracing figures too long and too hard through the frustration. But this close to a competition, it isn’t always an advantage.

Something sits on Otabek’s tongue—an admonishment? Or a concern: _you are taking care of yourself, right?_

And it must be showing on his face, because Leo sighs, fond and exasperated.

“I’ll figure it out, Beka, don’t look at me like that. Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you, what was that thing Yuri posted about on Insta the other day with the cat—something about snakes? Does they even get snakes in Russia? I thought it was too cold…”

“Oh. That.” And he knows Leo’s veering him off track, but Otabek still can’t keep the smile off his face as he recounts, dutifully, Yuri’s adventures in finding, naming, and toilet-training his fourth cat, who two days ago was formally dubbed Leopard Basilisk Rattlesnake, _because she’s slippery as a fucking snake, she won’t stop running away, Beka!_

Leo laughs in all the right places and when Otabek’s done, the silence between them is warm and languid. It’s nice, sometimes, to have nights where they don’t need to say much to each other, where companionship is enough in itself. Otabek likes quiet, likes having his own thoughts clear to sort through, and more than anything else, it makes him happy to know that Leo is comfortable in this quiet as well.

His mind turns to the rest of the week. It’s Thursday, and he has a nutritionist appointment tomorrow; this close to the competition season starting, his body needs to be as well-equipped as possible. Then there’s training, as well as crossfit tomorrow and yoga on Saturday. Leo’s been pushing for him to try something to stretch out his muscles and work on his flexibility— _spins are easy points and you’re getting level twos on them! Level twos, Otabek!_ —and coordinating his body through stretches is less taxing than it was ten years ago. He’s been going to yoga twice a week for over a year now, and stretching with Leo in the evenings; somewhere between the two, spins have become easier, and he almost _enjoys_ it.

They’ve both been busy in this early part of the season, and it feels like dinnertime is the first chance Otabek gets in a day to talk to Leo and have quiet around him. Even training at the same rink, they have different coaches, different schedules, different competitions and meetings and interviews and appointments and there’s no room to breathe some days. Otabek prides himself on his staunchness and steadiness, but even he feels worn at the edges.

It doesn’t help that the American press keep speculating about Leo retiring. They did it last year after his injury; they’re doing it now even though he’s been clear about being back in the competition circuit for good. But even without reading the articles, being more and more careful about his social media, the pressure’s still weighing on Leo. It’s impossible not to see.

There’s still time before the thick of the Grand Prix season starts, and it’s clear to Otabek that Leo needs time away from the rink. Otabek needs time away from the rink. He looks out to the lounge window, to the lights twinkling in the vast darkness beyond, the kind that stirs the desire to take to his bike and plunge headfirst into the night.

And as he looks out, a plan, unbidden, starts to form in his head. They could take some of the weekend to get away on his bike and into the mountains surrounding the city, and go hiking; take some food, maybe spend the evening watching the stars. It sounds romantic; almost like a proper _date._

Leo would love it.

It’s been a while and he’s cleared his plate, lost in thought. Otabek looks up to ask about the bike ride getaway, and if Leo knows the best hiking trails, and does he wants seconds—and sees a half-full plate, and Leo leaning his head on one hand, pushing at his dinner with his fork and with eyes half-closed.

“Leo?”

“Huh?”

Leo blinks rapidly and looks up. Something about his movements is sluggish, delayed, and it springs a bubble of concern in Otabek’s chest.

“You haven’t eaten much,” says Otabek, thankful his voice belies his sudden panic. “Are you feeling alright?”

Leo looks down at his plate.

“I’m…” He sighs and puts down his fork. “I’m pretty tired, I guess.”

All the pep in his voice has dissipated, and there’s a bow to his shoulders like a great weight has settled in. Leo’s not acting like himself, and Otabek has to force his swirling concerns to simmer down. This, he needs to take one thing at a time, and he starts with reaching across the table and folding his hand over Leo’s.

“You’ve had a long day.”

“Yeah.”

Otabek squeezes his hand, and takes heart when Leo squeezes back. “Do you want to lie down in the lounge for while? Or put a film on? I can heat up the rest of your dinner if you want to finish it in there.”

Leo hesitates. When he speaks, his voice is careful.

“Beka, I’m not really hungry.”

The words jar sharp in Otabek’s gut.

“You haven’t eaten much, Leo.”

Leo shakes his head, but his eyes are less soft, more troubled. “I’m not hungry.”

“You’ve had a full day of practice, Leo. You need to eat.”

“I _know_ , Beka.” Leo draws his hand away, and even through the wear tugging at his shoulders, his voice is edged, and his gaze white-hot. Otabek can’t back down.

“Leo, you’ve got a competition in two weeks, this isn’t the time to—”

“I know, Otabek, okay? I’ve been doing this for a long time, I _know._ I can take care of myself.”

Otabek sits up straighter, tense.

“Leo, I’m just trying to help.”

“I…” Leo takes a deep breath, and gets up without meeting Otabek’s eye. “I’m going to lie down. I’ll come out and start on dishes soon.”

The bedroom door shuts, loud in the reverberating silence, and Otabek’s still frozen to his seat. He wants to go after him; to tell him he doesn’t want to fight either. He just wants to know if Leo’s okay.

It’s with a heavy heart and mechanical movements that he clears the table and stacks the dishes. He pulls out his laptop and starts scrolling through his emails, replies to one from his dad with news from home, but keeps an ear out for the bedroom door opening; an eye out for Leo coming back.

Twenty minutes pass, and there’s no sign of him.

When Otabek knocks on the bedroom door, there’s silence. He takes one breath, two; knocks again louder. And then _come in_ , soft and sleepy and raised like a question, and Otabek does.

Leo’s curled up on his side, and he raises his head as Otabek approaches.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sitting up as Otabek sits on the side of the bed. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

“Was anything the matter? Was it something about the food, was it making you feel ill—”

“No! It’s nothing about you, I promise, and I didn't mean to—your cooking's great, I didn't wanna waste your hard work—”

Otabek shakes his head, and Leo falls quiet with a conciliatory smile.

“Leo, I'm not offended. I'm just concerned. It's close to competition season and…” He hesitates, but plunges forwards, too caught to not finish his thought. “I've heard the stories.”

He sees the moment it clicks for Leo what he means; and the moment too when he knows he’s utterly wrong.

“Nothing like that. I’m not doing anything like that, Otabek.” Leo takes a hold of Otabek’s hand and squeezes, his eyes huge and dark with sincerity, and it’s such a small possibility, so unlikely coming from someone as sensible as Leo, but it’s one of those things Otabek has to know for certain. He feels bad even for considering it.

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You’re trying to look out for me. There’s nothing wrong with that. And it’s nothing like that, I promise, Beka. I just don't have an appetite tonight.”

Otabek thumbs over the back of his hand and looks him over properly. “Are you feeling alright?”

There’s something about Leo that’s wan, fading too quickly in the light, and his voice is too quiet, too resigned even as he puts on a smile.

“I've got a headache.”

“I'm sorry,” says Otabek, which gets him another squeeze. Leo’s mentioned one particular kind before, and he sieves through his memory hard for the phrase. “A… migraine…?”

Leo shakes his head with a laugh. “Nothing as bad as that. It's just tense and tight all through my head.”

He gestures, a circular motion, and Otabek’s eyes land on his hair, still scraped back tight.

“Ah—here, your ponytail—”

“Ohh…” Leo keeps still as Otabek eases it loose. “Man, I forgot all about that.”

“You had your hair short for long enough.” He lays the hair-tie on the bedside cabinet and combs through Leo’s hair and across his scalp with his fingers, long, soothing motions as Leo leans heavier against him. His weight is comforting, solid and sure and like a space heater. Unusually like a space heater even for him.

“You feel kind of warm,” says Otabek.

“I run hot, Otabek. You haven't noticed before now? And I had a shower right before dinner, of course I'm still warm from that.”

“Not the first thing I'd think of,” he murmurs. “Have you had any painkillers?”

Leo shrugs. “Trying to see if it would go away on its own. I’m trying to be careful about pain meds after my knee and this isn’t the _worst_ headache I’ve had—”

“When was the last time you had them?”

“A while ago, I guess.”

“It's worth a try, isn't it? They might still be good for your head.”

“I can try some ibuprofen, I guess.” But as Otabek rises from the bed, Leo scoots to the edge and waves him off. “Ah, hang on, I'll get it before I do dishes, otherwise I'm gonna fall asleep—”

“Lie down, Leo. Let me.”

“Beka, I'm gonna be getting up anyway—”

“I can take care of dishes.”

Leo stops in his tracks and looks up, startled.

“Beka …”

“It'll go away faster if you're resting.” Otabek cups his cheek, and swallows hard against the searching clarity of Leo’s eyes. The only defence against the eyes which see every lie is the simplest truth. “I don't mind, Leo. You need to look after yourself.”

All at once, Leo’s face melts into that soft, tender look that isn’t even a smile; the one which makes Otabek’s heart catch every time before it speeds up, beating double-fast.

“Have I ever,” says Leo, softly, “told you just how great you are?”

Otabek can’t find the words to answer. He settles for kissing Leo’s forehead—and still, it’s unusually warm—before rising from the bed once more.

“Don't fall asleep right away,” he says at the doorway, and Leo shoots him an OK sign before he goes.

Finding the ibuprofen is not as easy as he hopes. He knows it’s in the bathroom cabinet labelled _Skating Stuff,_ designated as soon as they moved in to stock treatments for any and every self-inflicted bodily grievance either of them could imagine. But he opens it to find a mess, which he knows he can put down to late, tired nights, and that twisted ankle he gave himself back in May, and Leo’s knee, and the promise of so many things to do after a long practice better than stacking painkillers back in their right spot. They really need to tidy it up before they get too deep into the season, Otabek thinks with a sigh as he kneels before it and moves aside two rolls of kinesiology tape, a teetering pile of Band-Aid packets in varying shapes and thicknesses, and their entire collection of heat packs and anti-inflammatory creams.

At last, somewhere in the middle of the cabinet, he unearths the ibuprofen; a box which—to his relief—is still mostly full. He crams the rest of the medical miscellany back in the cupboard, resigned to leave it for another day, and heads to the kitchen to fill a glass of water.

From the bedroom, he can hear the husky tones of Leo’s voice; it sounds like he’s on the phone. It would be rude to interrupt his conversation, and the ibuprofen can wait another few minutes. He eyes up the stack of dishes still lingering on the bench— _those,_ he can tackle once he’s sure Leo’s too settled to want to get up, which, knowing Leo, shouldn’t be far off—and then, beside them, the kettle.

A few minutes later, Otabek nudges the bedroom door open with his foot. Leo’s curled up against the headboard, wearing flannel pyjama pants and one of Otabek’s long, thick cardigans, and he looks up from his phone as Otabek approaches the bedside table. His eyes widen as he lays down the water glass, one of the ibuprofen blister sheets, and a steaming mug of rooibos tea.

“Meds first,” says Otabek, and Leo takes them dutifully before reaching out for the tea.

“Thank you,” says Leo, cradling his hands around the mug. “Ohhh, that feels nice…”

“It’s decaf. Don’t want you up all night.”

“I’m gonna be asleep in two seconds anyway once I get horizontal again,” says Leo. Otabek knows Leo too well to disagree, and smiles.

“Don’t wait up for me, okay?” says Otabek, smoothing a lock of Leo’s fringe back from his face. His hand lingers, and he finds he doesn’t yet want to move away. “Get an early night.”

“You got it.”

 “I hope it goes away quickly.”

Leo laughs. “You and me both.”

And like Leo can read his mind, he untangles Otabek’s hand from his hair and gives him a little push with that fond, assured smile. “I’ll be fine, Otabek. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Otabek leaves the door slightly ajar behind him, and settles in to fill up the sink. With the radio tuned to a soft, folksy station, and the little hallway aglow with the light filtering in from the bedroom, he releases his worries and the stresses of the day into his scrubbing, methodical, measured, at ease with the world once more. Leo, he knows in a way secure as a tight pair of laces and unbreakable as the will of a champion, will surely be fine after a good night’s sleep.

After all, as long as Otabek’s known him, that’s how it’s always been.

 

* * *

 

The cold is seeping under the blankets when Otabek wakes up, the chill of a clear night still deep in the wake before dawn. Leo’s curled beside him, still asleep and warming the bed like a space heater, and Otabek considers cuddling up to him and taking an extra half hour that morning. He always wakes too early, and the morning has come quickly, as it always does on a Friday with the promise of a weekend ahead, tantalisingly close to some kind of break from the relentless training and the ever-looming season ahead.

But he knows that putting it off will only make the inevitable process of _getting up_ harder, and it’s with great reluctance that he extracts himself free of the bed. The covers, he pulls a little higher and firmer around Leo. One of Leo’s hands is limp near the pillow, and Otabek takes it up and gives it a gentle squeeze. Sometimes this wakes Leo up, and it always softens his heart to see him in that early moment wavering between the morning and sleep, when his eyes land on Otabek and his whole face glows.

This morning, Leo stays asleep; but Otabek’s hand is much the warmer for the holding, and he leaves the bedroom feeling slightly less inclined to pack in his whole career for the luxury of an extra hour in bed in mid-autumn.

Cold water on his face helps; a shock to the system while the pipes are still bitter-cold from the chill of the night. A streak of gel to fix his hair, and he looks less like he’s just dragged himself from the depths of hibernation. And no matter what else he does, the coffee pot is the first thing he sets up once he’s out of bed, and its dark, heady notes as he settles at the kitchen table finally, finally make him feel human again.

This part of the morning is nice in its own way, where it’s only him up in the soft dark of the apartment. The thing is, Leo’s good at giving him space. Better than good; it’s like he can sense the exact moment Otabek needs an empty room to recharge in, and though he’s never loud nor intrusive about taking his leave and making himself busy elsewhere, Otabek always knows why.

But this kind of space is nice as well: the solitude born of necessity for the simple fact that Leo’s not yet awake.

As the sun breaks over the horizon, around the time Leo tends to wake up and go about his morning with a song on his lips and pep in his step, Otabek downs the last of his coffee with his breakfast, and immediately makes himself another. He knows he’s delaying the inevitable, but Fridays justify two cups easily.

When he reaches the last dregs in his second cup, and has texted Yuri back from messages left overnight, he knows it’s time to get on with the final part of his Friday morning routine, no matter how much he wants to put it off. He rinses his mug, flips on the lounge light, and makes his way round the room, methodically picking up every sweater and cardigan as he goes. There are seven out here this time; doubtless there will be at least one in the bathroom as well, not to mention the spare bedroom.

Leo has this _habit._

He borrows Otabek’s clothes sometimes; not a problem in itself, given they’re the same height and he’s very good about laundering exercise and training clothes promptly. He's especially fond of Otabek’s jerseys: his hoodies, his sweaters, anything cozy that he might bury himself in to sleep on the sofa.

Again, not a problem in itself.

The problem is Leo then leaves Otabek’s sweaters _everywhere_ around the apartment.

He insists, naturally, that there’s a method to it; and in fairness, the same sweaters end up left in the same places every time. But there are drawers in their room for a reason. Otabek has tried to tell Leo this several times. And Leo smiles, and nods, and continues to _never put the jerseys away._

Otabek takes the time to fold them all before bringing them back into the bedroom and stacking them in the drawers. He tries to think how to frame the Talk overdue by this point: insinuate that Leo’s mother _didn’t_ raise him to be courteous and considerate, or quietly hint at best practices for maintaining good headspace coming into the thick of competition season? The latter might work nicely; might even give him a couple of weeks’ reprieve from the endless clothing debris before their first competitions.

As he closes the last drawer, he realises he’s missed something: a long, thick knit cardigan Leo is particularly fond of. It’s nearly always the first garment to take up residence somewhere it shouldn’t, and he glances to the bed to see if it’s there now Leo’s up.

Except Leo’s not up. His prone form is curled up in bed, chest rising slow. He’s still asleep.

Otabek glances at his smartwatch and starts. It’s nearly a quarter to eight.

He shuts the drawers as softly as he can and looks back to the bed, agog. It’s rare for Leo to oversleep; even when he’s tired, even when he’s had a late night, or this time last year when he was injured and in physiotherapy, not training, he’s always been awake with the sun.

Some part of him, after last night, wants to let leave him be. His gut’s telling him that this isn’t normal; if Leo’s not awake by now, there has to be something wrong. But time’s ticking away. They have practice. Leo’s competing in two weeks.

As he crosses the floor, he prays Leo won’t be too mad at him for this.

“Leo?” Otabek hesitates, then takes his shoulder and shakes it, gently. “You need to wake up. We have practice.”

He shakes him again when there’s only silence in response. “Leo.”

Leo stirs.

“’m tired,” he says. Blurred by sleep, his voice is scratchy, a fraction of its normal self. And the way he curls away from Otabek and the lamplight makes Otabek’s stomach twinge. This isn’t normal at all.

“Leo, we have practice soon. You need to get up.”

Leo screws up his face. “Isn’t it early?”

“It’s nearly seven-forty-five.”

“Huh?”

Leo pushes himself up to sitting and squints at Otabek.

“Seven-forty-five? No way. Oh _crap,_ no way…”

“We’ve still got time,” says Otabek, shifting aside as Leo untangles himself from the covers and stands, gritting his teeth.

 _“Shit,_ I never sleep in, why today…?”

“Get dressed,” says Otabek as Leo bend over the drawers, pulling out clothes at lightning speed. “I’ll make you breakfast. Do you want coffee?”

“Please!” Leo calls over his shoulder as he runs into the bathroom. Otabek gathers up his skates and starts to pack his bag, but can’t shake his unease. Leo never sleeps in. He never swears.

Ten minutes later, Leo’s dressed, hair tied back, and looks ready to go; but there are dark circles under his eyes, and he still looks drained as he takes the travel mug of coffee and packed skating bag Otabek hands him.

“Beka,” he says as he’s locking the door behind them, “can you drive us in? My brain still feels kinda foggy.”

“Of course.” Something sounds weird with his voice, streaky like he’s still lost in sleep, and Otabek touches his shoulder. “Is your throat alright?”

“Oh, yeah—it’s just one of those mornings, y’know?”

Otabek isn’t sure what _one of those mornings_ is, but he nods along and takes the keys Leo hands him before patting down his pockets to make sure he’s got his wallet and licence close to hand.

“Thanks for doing this,” says Leo once they’re in the car and Otabek’s taking them out of the building’s parking lot. Otabek takes a second to glance at Leo, who looks like he wants to curl against the window and sleep the ride away. But he won’t, not with Otabek still green behind this kind of wheel, and it’s the least Otabek can do to do the heavy work.

“It’s nothing,” he says, and those words weigh on the silence until they pull into the rink’s parking lot twenty-five minutes later.

Leo’s quieter than normal while they’re warming up and stretching rinkside. On any other day he’d take the opportunity to call Guanghong, or Phichit, or any of a dozen figure skating friends living in far-off and inconvenient time zones. But he doesn't bring out his phone past a cursory check once they arrive; doesn’t even put his music on, and that catches Otabek’s attention.

“My ears kinda hurt,” says Leo when Otabek asks about it. “Like… when I swallow, they start to ache? Figured it might not be the best idea to blast my music any more than I have to on the ice.”

Otabek nods like he understands, although he doesn’t. Music is never a hindrance in Leo’s life.

Something is wrong. He just can’t put his finger on _what._

At ten-thirty, on a water break, Otabek takes the time to observe Leo, still going out on the ice. He’s running his choreographic sequence into that death drop; something he’s been going at almost since he stepped onto the ice. And his movements are stiff, like his arms are weighed down, his boots filled with lead, and his face is tight and drawn as he spins and launches himself.

He stumbles on the landing and loses his momentum, slips and thuds on the ice, and Otabek winces as he does.

“Leo!”

Nadine’s standing on the other side of the rink, and she beckons Leo over with a nod. Leo’s already on his feet, but his strokes are slow as he makes his way back to the rink wall, and by the time he reaches it, Otabek can see the fierce flush to his cheeks and the weight to each breath.

Otabek has to get back to practice, but he keeps an eye on the clock, and it’s nearly twenty minutes after Nadine calls Leo off the ice that he comes back on, with weary eyes and wearier strokes. Otabek takes the breadth of the ice twice more that morning to run his programs back-to-back. But for the rest of the session, Leo’s only working on his short program, barely at half his usual energy. He marks all his jumps.

Otabek comes off the ice not long after Leo, and lets himself blend into the background while he’s taking off his skates. Leo’s still standing and talking with Nadine, like he’s trying to prove a point; and though her eyes are kind, her voice is firm.

“Leo, hun, you’re better off at home.”

“I’m fine, I’m just tired today. Skate America’s in two weeks, Nadine.”

“And if you’re still like this by then, you’re gonna have a worse time of it. Honey, take the weekend off. Rest up. You wanna be on top of your health for the competition.”

“Nadine…”

“Leo, you’ve been working hard. We’ve got time after Skate America to polish your routines further, and you know you can perform them clean. Taking some time to rest isn’t a bad thing if it means you’ll perform stronger afterwards.” She levels him with an unyielding gaze. “This isn’t a request.”

Leo’s face is defiant, but below it are tense shoulders and trembling legs and a body that leans too quickly and heavily against the rinkside wall when he averts his gaze.

“I don’t wanna fall behind again.”

“You aren’t falling behind. You’re taking the time you need.” She places a hand on his shoulder, and as Leo meets her eyes, something in his face settles. “The competition hasn’t even started yet. You had a good run at the Autumn Classic and Nebelhorn. You will be able to medal, but not if you’re battling yourself on the way. And I don’t want you getting into a bad mindset for that spin. Come back fresh after the weekend.”

If Otabek knows anything about Nadine, it’s that she’s one of the people Leo trusts most in the world. If anyone can get through to him, it’ll be her. And even as he watches, Leo nods, and Nadine grips his shoulder a little tighter before she lets him go.

Otabek waits to approach until Nadine’s left Leo alone to talk with one of her other students.

“Is everything alright?” he asks, sitting next to Leo on the bench. Leo’s untying his skates, but sits back and lets out a heavy sigh as he regards Otabek.

“Nadine’s sending me home early.” His voice is still scratchy, as scratchy as it was when he woke up that morning. “Sorry to bug you with this but could you drop me back? You’re gonna need the car this afternoon, right?”

“Of course. Just let me know when you’re ready to go.”

As Leo takes up a towel and starts running it over his boots and blades, Otabek gears himself up to speak again.

_Make sure you warm down properly._

But then he looks at Leo again; hard-lipped as he dries his skates and checks over the blade edges. And he closes his mouth, and moves to take up his own towel.

Like Leo said last night: he’s been doing this for a long time. As long as Otabek, at least. He knows.

Leo can look after himself.

When they get home, Otabek stops by the apartment to drop off his skating gear and set his boots out to air and pick up his motorbike helmet, and he checks his calendar. He has a gym session between his nutritionist appointment and another spell on the ice, but with Leo the way he is, he wonders if it would be worth cancelling.

But he hears the shower turn on, and decides against it. Leo knows his limits. An afternoon resting at home isn’t going to make whatever’s wrong with him worse. He can take care of himself.

And on his bike, coursing through the streets, his mind settles, as the worry gets swept away with the wind.

 

* * *

 

Optimism is a fickle and fragile thing.

“Hey, Beka,” is what Leo says when Otabek gets home and finds him in the kitchen; only, his voice is barely a voice, so croaky and scratched it’s hard to discern his words, and the sheepish smile he gives Otabek after says it all.

“You lost your voice.”

“Kinda.” The word comes out a feeble crack, and when Leo speaks next, it’s in a whisper, clearer but so quiet. “Kinda.”

“Definitely.” Otabek pulls out a chair next to Leo, who’s fiddling with his phone in his hands, spinning it round and round. The restlessness unsettles Otabek. So too does the utter silence in the apartment: no music, from the radio or Leo’s laptop or his phone or even his old iPod Classic. “What happened?”

Leo shrugs, like there’s no big deal about the fact that he just lost his voice. The way his gaze keeps shifting to the phone suggests otherwise.

“Just trying to figure something out.”

“Something?”

Leo’s forehead crinkles and tightens—and all at once, it bursts out.

“That stupid death drop! I don’t know what’s going on, I was on the phone with Emil for an hour after I got home trying to figure it out, and he thinks I’m not taking enough vitamins… it was getting late for him so he had to go but I’ve been trying to figure it out and I just _can’t.”_

“Do you want me to take a look?”

“Would you?”

“I live with you. We share a bed. If anyone can figure it out…”

“Makes sense.” Otabek can barely discern the words from the croaking, and it pains him to hear.

“You really have lost your voice.”

With a shrug, the kind that says _what does it matter anyway?,_ Leo opens up his laptop, and with a few taps, the video comes up.

Even in practice, Leo looks confident. There’s something effortless about the way he performs—he works just as hard as everyone else, but musicality and ease in the spotlight are his gifts, the things he will always be best at.

That the Leo in the video lands his opening quad cleanly is the clincher. Leo’s always been polished in competition, and it’s one reason, Otabek knows, why he’s held off putting in quads as long as he has. PCS marks follow execution marks. The music has rhythm; once you lose it, it’s hard to get it back. _I don’t wanna fall if I know I’m gonna fall. You get it, right?_

Otabek only ever puts in jumps he can land at least ninety percent of the time. He does get it. In this world, you have to play to your strengths. He chose one path; Leo has chosen another, and Otabek knows, maybe more than anyone else, that Leo’s doing the right thing for himself.

But he cannot hide his pride at the fact that Leo’s come through landing quads late, and injury, and every comment thrown his way about playing catch-up, and is entering the season with two quads under his belt. Only the barest handful of people in the world are able to pull this off at all.

Leo has the best music, and his choreography is different, intriguing. He’s dancing on the ice, captivating to watch, and Otabek can’t take his eyes away.

Triple axel-triple toe loop. It’s his showstopper combination, the highlight leading the second half, and a set he executes with power and pride. But his landing’s wobbly, too deep, and now Otabek can see his energy flagging. The rest of the jumps follow in kind, and he two-foots his final triple flip.

And at last, it’s the choreographic sequence, lively and dramatic. This whole skate is different to anything Leo’s done before. The music is delicate, but drives, has depth; it necessitates big jumps, later jumps, a careful hand to orchestrate the whole so it is not just the sum of its parts, but _infinity times infinity times infinity_ grazing seamless over the ice. It looks like the skate of someone with something to prove.

He sneaks a glance back to Leo, who’s still frowning at the laptop and wiping his nose. Something to prove.

After the last year, it makes sense.

It isn’t that there’s too much in there; this skate needs this much to keep pace with the music. But Leo’s been flagging all day, and doubtless the last few as well. There’s no way he’d have enough energy to keep this up all the way to his death drop.

“What do you think?” Leo croaks, even as the music has yet to play out.

“I might need to see it again.”

Leo drops his head against Otabek’s shoulder with a sigh—annoyed, frustrated, but only at himself—and Otabek pulls him in close. Leo squeezes tight around Otabek’s shoulders, and his breath resounds harsh this close. Otabek tightens his grip.

“You’ll get it. This isn’t going to last.”

“God, I hope you’re right.” Leo’s voice comes out strangled, and he breathes a half-laugh before burying his face in Otabek’s neck.

His face is warm. Too warm.

Leo may run hot, but this isn’t normal; and it strikes a chill deep in Otabek’s gut.

When Otabek tries to let go, Leo clings on.

“I’m not done hugging you yet,” he says, and the crack of his voice is enough to make Otabek push him away, gently through his fear. The scowl on his face dissipates in a second as he meets Otabek’s eye.

“What’s wrong? Beka, you okay?”

“You feel too warm, Leo. I don’t think you’re just running hot.”

Leo’s grip slackens on his arms.

“Beka?”

“Give me a minute?”

Otabek doesn’t wait for an answer before he heads for the bathroom. It has to be in here somewhere, he thinks as he kneels before the sink. It has to be in one of the cabinets—the _Skating Stuff_ one below the sink is a mess and doubtless the others are as well, but he knows if he can just _find it—_

“What’s going on, Beka?”

It’s Leo, standing in the doorway with a pinched mouth.

And at last, Otabek finds it, buried in the back of the smaller cabinet; and he holds up the thermometer so Leo can see it too.

“Can I take your temperature?”

“My temperature? Otabek, my throat’s scratchy, that’s all.”

“Please?”

Leo sighs. But he turns his head, and Otabek slips on a disposable casing before easing it into Leo’s ear canal.

He doesn’t like the number that comes up.

“38.4.”

“Come again?”

“This says 38.4.”

To his bemusement, Leo rolls his eyes with a smile.

“Dude, I know it’s fall, but I run pretty hot, I’m not _quite_ a popsicle yet. That thing’s gotta be broken.”

Otabek frowns, puzzled. “I’m losing you.”

“If that thing’s reading 38.4 F, there is _definitely_ something wrong with it.”

“Why do thermometers even still _have_ Fahrenheit settings,” Otabek mutters as he switches the setting to Fahrenheit and jabs it back in Leo’s ear.

“Ow ow ow! Otabek, you can’t just _do that—”_

“101.12.”

The smile drops abruptly from Leo’s face.

“101?”

“Point one-two.”

“No way. Beka…” Leo stares at the thermometer. “I can’t have a fever.”

“You don’t sound well, Leo,” says Otabek, placing the thermometer on the edge of the vanity.

Leo shakes his head. “Skate America’s two weeks away. I can’t be getting _that kind_ of sick now.”

Even through the rasp of an inflamed throat, Otabek hears his voice tightening. He knows this voice too well. This is what Leo sounds like before he’s realised he’s scared.

“It might not be that serious,” he says gently, reaching out to squeeze Leo’s shoulder. “You’re bound to be through the worst of it well before the competition.”

“It’s not that,” says Leo. He rumples his hand through his hair with a sigh, and doesn’t quite meet Otabek’s gaze. “I still need more practice. If this were happening right before the competition—”

“Don’t say that. You don’t want to be skating when you’re feeling ill, and you’ve still got time before Skate America.”

“And what about that death drop?”

“If you exert yourself now you’re going to make it worse. Take something for your fever, at least. Nadine told you to take the weekend off. It might just be a cold.”

“You think?”

“Aren’t you meant to be the positive one? I don’t want you feeling miserable if you don’t have to, Leo.”

At length, Leo breathes out a tiny, tired laugh, and tips forward to butt his head against Otabek’s shoulder.

“’Kay. If you think it’ll help.”

“I hope it will.” There’s something heavy about how Leo’s leaning on him, and Otabek slips an arm up to hold him secure. “Maybe you should go and lie down for a while.”

“I’m not that tired,” says Leo. “And I’ve barely been able to talk to you today. This—” He sniffs. “This is just what happens with colds, right?”

The way Leo’s fever is creeping up, Otabek is starting to consider the possibility that this might be more than just a cold. But Leo has a point. And, Otabek thinks with a pang, he’s been at home alone half the day, and Leo thrives on being around other people.

However, no sooner has he settled down on the couch than Leo scrambles up again.

“Need tissues,” he whispers, cupping a hand to his streaming nose, and Otabek can’t protest against him getting up fast enough.

He reappears with the box from the bathroom, and curls up with it snug in his lap before nudging his feet against Otabek’s.

“Did your appointment go well?”

“It did. And I skated through my long program clean at the end of my afternoon session. Positive GOEs clean.” He can’t hide the pride in his voice, and Leo’s eyes shine.

“Beka! That’s amazing.”

“Nadine was asking after you. She said to remind you to have lots of fluids and no exercise this weekend. And definitely not with a fever.”

“She could tell just from the ice? Man, how bad did I look this morning?”

“You did look worn out.”

“I just thought it was ‘cause I overslept.” Leo flops back into the couch and makes a face. “She called me today and told me the same thing.”

He grimaces and raises a hand to his throat.

“Leo, you should save your voice,” says Otabek.

“Beka, it’s fine.”

“You’re going to hurt your throat like this. My mom always said the silent treatment was the best way to cure it.”

“Yeah, and you don’t talk much anyway,” says Leo. But he huffs and pulls out his phone, types like lightning, and a moment later Otabek’s own phone vibrates.

 _**From: Leo de la Iglesia** _  
_is this better?_

“Yes.”

 _**From: Leo de la Iglesia** _  
_I cant talk to u proprly like this tho_  
_beka please itll be fine_

“If you keep talking you’re going to hurt your throat.”

Leo scowls at him.

 _**From: Leo de la Iglesia** _  
_u could at least txt too u know_

“I type much slower than you do,” says Otabek.

 _**From: Leo de la Iglesia** _  
_yeah bc u type w caps and punctuatin_  
_*puntuation and u spell everything correctly_  
_*punctuation DAMMIT_

Otabek bites back a laugh and Leo throws the tissue box at his face.

 _**From: Leo de la Iglesia** _  
_stop laughing!!! thought im suppsd to be sick_

“Sorry.” Otabek clears his throat and pulls out another tissue for Leo, whose nose is streaming again. “I’ll stop laughing.”

“You’re the one making me do this,” Leo mutters.

 _**From: Leo de la Iglesia** _  
_this is gonna get old real fast_  
_theres gotta be an easier way_

“You can rest your voice and it’ll get better sooner. That’s the easiest way I can think of.”

Leo huffs and turns his attention back to the screen. But no new texts come through, and Otabek nestles further into the couch as he watches him.

It’s weird, having this barrier between them again. Leo’s so quick and lively with his words, and to have silence hanging over him is hard to see.

And the texting is bothering him. It’s convenient—Leo is nothing if not innovative—but so horribly formal. Leo’s not formal with him at all. But Otabek stares at his phone, reads the thread over and over; and seeing _Leo de la Iglesia_ talking to him is grating, and strange, and far too formal and proper.

Some minutes later, while he’s skimming through a new terms and conditions email from one of the clubs he sometimes plays at, Leo nudges his leg.

“You never said…” He winces. “You never said what you thought it was.”

Otabek tries to convey something like We Just Had The Conversation About Saving Your Voice in the look he directs at Leo; but, sheepish smile in response or no, he has an answer. There are a lot of things it could have been, but now Otabek knows for certain.

“I think,” says Otabek, “that you’re sick.”

“That’s it?”

“Illnesses can creep up on you. If you’re only just having trouble with this, it’ll just be because you’re already tired and this is tiring you out more. Leo, your choreo looks fine.”

“You really think so?”

“I’m not going to lie to you, Leo.”

Leo gives him an _if you say so_ sort of smile as he blows his nose, and Otabek shifts to the edge of the couch.

“I’m going to head out to the supermarket. Do you want anything?”

“Beka, you don’t have to.”

“I’m getting honey so you’ve got something for your throat,” says Otabek, pointedly. “And more tissues. And lozenges. Is there anything you like to eat when you’re ill like this?”

Leo presses his lips together, and doesn’t meet Otabek’s eyes. “You don’t have to get me anything special, Otabek.”

“Nothing at all?”

“It’s not serious.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

Leo sighs. “There isn’t much point. I kinda lose my appetite when I’m not feeling good. That probably should’ve been a warning sign, huh…”

“Do your parents make you eat?”

“Mom usually makes me soup. Sometimes she makes it really spicy if my sinuses are blocked up. And Guanghong made me congee once when he was over for the summer and I got a cold, that was nice… Otabek, honestly? Thinking about food when I don’t feel good just makes me feel sick to my stomach. Hey, it’s not so bad. You look like the world’s about to end.”

“I’m just worried about you. I haven’t ever seen you like this before.”

“It’s fine, Beka. I’m fine,” says Leo again, even as his ragged voice says otherwise. “We’ve got rice in the house, I can live off that for a couple days.”

“Any tea you want me to stock up on, then? Or… what’s that sports drink… the orange one… the…” Otabek struggles for the word. “The alligator one…”

“Gatorade?”

“That.” He shakes his head. “It looks terrifying.”

“Middle class America swears by it. But… no thanks.”

Otabek wants to push further. But he takes another look at Leo—a little too tense, a little too tight in his shoulders and smile—and bites down his concern. Leo’s not usually this reticent. He knows which battles he needs to leave for another day.

“Okay. I’ll take the car. Be back soon.”

“The car?” Leo smirks. “I’m shocked.”

“You were the one who made me get my licence—don’t look at me like that!”

The solitude of the supermarket is reassuring. Most people have better things to do with their Friday afternoons than grocery shopping, and Otabek has the lay of the place nearly to himself. He pulls out his list, adjusts the basket on his arm, and starts making his way through the aisles.

It’s strange, in some ways, to think that he’s dating Leo, has known him for eight years, and still doesn’t know a thing about how he acts when he’s sick. And he knows so many of those eight years was time they spent apart. Some small part of him wishes they’d had longer in the same spaces, closer than that nebulousness of an email with a playlist link every few weeks or months, or a tag in an Instagram post, or brief conversations over private accounts.

But the fates have aligned somehow to bring them together now, and he can be nothing but grateful for that.

For all the knowledge he lacks about how to look after a sick Leo, there are the necessities to make him comfortable he at least knows exactly the kinds of things that make Leo feel better when he's had a bad day. That, he figures, is a good place to start.

 

There’s noise from the spare bedroom when Otabek gets back. It’s the room they keep their skating things in, for lack of overnight visitors, and the bed’s mattress is more often than not littered with choreography sheets and charging cables or spare laces and sweatpants than with actual bedding.

But Otabek rounds the doorway to find, of all things, Leo putting actual bedding on the bed.

“What are you doing?”

Leo yelps and jerks the bottom sheet so hard, it snaps away from the mattress.

“Beka! You scared me.”

Otabek takes the other end of the sheet and pulls it taut over the edge of the mattress, but stares over the bed as he moves to tuck in the other corner on this side. Leo’s pyjamas are on top of the sheet. So is Otabek’s long knit cardigan.

“What’s—what’s all this?”

“Oh. I…” Leo tucks in his edge of the fitted sheet, lifts a finger— _wait—_ and pulls out his phone.

 _**From: Leo** _  
_figured sleeping in here might be better._  
_dont want to keep u up all night_

Otabek stares at the words, reads them over and over without processing them.

“You’re sleeping in here tonight?”

 _**From: Leo** _  
_isnt that what ur sppsd to do when ur sick?? minimise contact etc yadda yadda yadda_

And the unrest must be showing on his face, because in the next moment Leo’s smile slips.

 _**From: Leo** _  
_ur ok with it right?_  
_its just for one night beka_

Otabek bites back something that breathes dark down his throat and whispers _this is more than just a cold_ to him. “If you’re sure.”

Leo lays his pillow atop the sheets and nods firm. “Positive.”

The rasp of his voice is anything but.

 

* * *

 

The music ratchets up, vaults higher and higher. It wraps through Otabek and he digs his edge deep to launch his final jump, four tight spins and a clean landing before he has time to think, and he wants to race around the rink in triumph. But he has the last twenty seconds of his program left to run, and his body moves into it like clockwork.

He doesn’t try to stifle the yell that escapes him when the music finally breaks off, and his coach, Ashat, laughs over at the rink-side wall.

Saturdays at the rink are busy but lively, the sleepiness and staleness of Fridays washed away in the brightness of the junior and novice skaters, so full of energy and spark, exultant on the ice. The hum of the place makes Otabek think of the rink in the midst of competition, the same electricity rising up, up, up with the noise unbounded, and as he takes a lap to run off the adrenaline, he visualises the bright lights and cascading crowds before him, and

“Otabek,” says Ashat as he comes in close and leans against the wall.

“Mm?” he says around his water bottle.

“Are you alright to wrap up in the next ten minutes or so? There’s a news filming team using the rink in an hour and they want time to set up.”

Otabek’s hands tighten on the rink wall. The temperature drops.

“A media team? Since when?”

“Since a couple of weeks ago… I forgot to mention it, but I figured you’d know. You can relax, we’ve told them no photos.”

If there’s one thing Otabek hates more than anything else, it’s photos, namely of himself. He caps his water bottle with too much force, in any case.

“Why here? Why _now?”_

“Ask your boyfriend.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought he’d have told you. He’s the one they’re here for.”

Otabek turns. It can’t be. He left him sound asleep at home three hours ago.

But the figure lacing his skates across the rink is unmistakeable, and Otabek takes off like a shot.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?”

With pinched brow and drawn mouth, sallow and sleep-worn, Leo looks like he’d rather be anywhere else right now. He doesn’t even joke it off.

“I got asked to do this thing for one of the news sites. Demo some jumps, talk about the tech aspects, get people hyped for the figure skating season… you know how it is.”

“Why didn’t I know about this?”

“I mentioned it a couple of weeks ago.”

And Otabek does remember now—a brief conversation at dinner a couple of weeks ago, something fleeting and not uncommon, something that wasn't—shouldn't—be cause for concern. But that was then.

“I mean _yesterday,_ when you came down with a fever.”

“I forgot. That’s it, okay? I forgot until Nadine called me about it this morning.”

Otabek stares at him. Leo doesn’t meet his eye.

“You’re sick, Leo. You can’t do this.”

“I don’t feel as bad as yesterday.” Leo yanks his laces tight and sighs, deep and frustrated. “It’s good pay.”

Otabek hates how that one tiny thing makes him stop in his tracks and re-evaluate whether it is the worst thing in the world for Leo to do this.

The thing is, Otabek cannot force Leo to stop. He cannot pick him up and carry him out to his bike and drive him home, even if he knows he could pick Leo up quite easily.

Were it any other day, this wouldn't be an issue, and that’s the moment he knows he has to give up.

It feels like he's lost. He's not sure if Leo wins from this either.

"Don't push yourself too hard," he says at last. "And keep hydrated. Tell them if it's getting too much and you need a break. Promise me."

Leo looks him in the eye with a hard, sad look that belies no untruth. "I will."

"Text me when you're done?"

"Sure."

There's nothing more to say, really, if this is how it's going to be. Otabek's coach lets him go without another word, and he takes to the road on his bike at the very edge of the speed limit.

Something bothers him more than it should about Leo doing this. It's not that Otabek doubts he can do it—he's fit enough and well-practised, and even with illness wearing at him, there's no reason why he shouldn't be able to do this. But he doesn't have to. Otabek left before Leo woke up this morning, and he can't judge properly how ill Leo really is at the moment. And he shouldn't be able to dictate Leo's choices—Leo knows his own mind and his own path well enough and it's not Otabek's place in the slightest to make judgements for him—but this isn't a normal situation.

It feels like there's something more to Leo's _why,_ and Otabek can't figure it out.

Getting home, to an empty apartment hollow in the streaky light of an overcast midday, is like a stone settling in this pool of unease. Leo isn't here, and won't be here for another couple of hours. Otabek is patient, has always been a patient person, and yet he can't shake the restlessness creeping up inside him. He's half-tempted to get straight back on his bike and ride out the wait.

Instead, he lays his skates out to air, puts in his earbuds and turns JJ's band’s latest album up loud, rolls up his sleeves, and digs out the vacuum cleaner. Even if Leo's being stubborn, there's no way Otabek will ask him to do his normal chores while he's ill.

It’s easy, once he’s in the rhythm of it, to lose himself to the cleaning, repetitive and mundane and blessedly distracting. Vacuuming segues into dusting; dusting into scrubbing the kitchen and bathroom sinks. He takes a look at the shower and elects to wait another week. Leo gets very particular about the shower. Whenever it’s Otabek’s turn to clean it, Leo’s usually in there scrubbing it an hour after. He’s heard countless mutterings about _bleach spray_ and several times, Leo’s waved a clump of black hairs in his face with a pointed _these are **yours.**_ It’s uncanny, in those moments, how much Leo sounds like his mother.

But instead, he sits before the bathroom sink, and opens the _Skating Stuff_ cabinet beneath. The tower of Band-Aids teeters for a second, and collapses and falls into his lap. It feels like a metaphor. He contemplates, briefly, leaving for another day.

But if he leaves it, he’ll start worrying about Leo. And this is a job that needs to get done before the time they’ll both be frequenting this cupboard daily; so he steels his shoulders, and faces the mess head-on.

It takes a full forty-five minutes to go through the entire cupboard: re-grouping items, throwing empty boxes and tubes away, compiling an inventory of all the things they’re running low on—kinesiology tape and deep heat—and all the things they really need to stop accidentally buying more of _—_ the cheap band-aids which don’t last two minutes under the duress of sweat, and a large collection of largely useless strapping tape which Otabek is certain they inherited from Leo’s house. There is also the thermometer and its caps, which Otabek decides, after a moment’s pause, to leave where they are in the cupboard. The ibuprofen is missing, but only because it’s on the bedside cabinet in the spare room.

He’s left his phone in the lounge, and doesn’t check it until the cupboards are tidy. There’s a message from one of his rinkmates, one from Yuri.

But nothing from Leo. Nothing at all.

Leo will text when he’s done. He promised Otabek.

He just never specified what he would be done _with,_ that’s all. That’s all, Otabek reminds himself the whole next hour, staring at his editing program but barely touching a thing.

It’s a long, tense wait.

 

Otabek hears Leo take his shoes off as soon as he comes through the door. It’s the only thing he hears, until another door shuts, and his ears ring with the weight of the silence. He pauses the track in his editing program.

“Leo?” he calls. There’s no response.

“Leo?”

He knocks on the spare bedroom door; twists the handle a fraction. There’s nothing, and he eases the door the rest of the way open.

Leo’s lying on the bed, where the tissue box is now right next to the pillow. His cheeks are flushed dull red, the same raw colour as his irritated nose, but beyond that his skin is sallow. A Team USA jacket is crumpled on the floor. Otabek steps around it.

“How was it?” It’s a blessing, for once, to have a voice so quiet and solemn that an edge of concern spiked through it doesn’t even register.

Leo sighs.

“It happened.” His voice is nearly as scratched and battered as it was yesterday; it’s clear he’s been talking far beyond what he’s currently capable of. “I sounded like crap but they said it didn’t matter. They only asked me to do triples and I saw the playback after, it looked fine.”

“Is your knee alright?”

“Fine. It’s fine.”

He doesn’t looked pained; it’s something Otabek could have surmised without asking. Leo’s an open book, even when he wants to hide his emotions. Leo isn’t hurting. He’s tired. And there’s something else under there that he’s not saying, something Otabek doesn’t have a word for.

“Otabek?”

He holds his breath.

“Yes?”

“I’m…” Leo lifts himself from the mattress to look Otabek in the eyes. “I’m really tired, Otabek. I want some time alone.”

With an exhale, he sets the wish free. The tight thing in his chest squeezes harder. But when wishes don’t work, nor prayers, all that is left is hope, and the wisdom to concede with grace.

“Of course,” says Otabek. He draws closer, just enough so he can rest a hand on Leo’s shoulder. “Let me know if you want anything. I’m…”

It's a big promise, but one he knows he must make nonetheless, because this is the one thing he knows will help Leo.

“I’m here if you need to talk. About anything.”

Leo nods. But he says nothing, and doesn’t meet Otabek’s eyes, and in the end there’s nothing Otabek can do but let go and leave him be.

On his way out, he picks up the Team USA jacket from the floor, and he stares at it where it lies soft in his hands after he shuts the door behind him.

Leo’s always so proud to wear it. It’s something he cherishes, and Otabek knows the USFSA regard Leo highly in return; despite the year off, he’s still listed in their top seed of figure skaters. It’s something Otabek knows, and feels in his bones and muscles even more than his soul: the pride of wearing your country’s colours and bearing their flag for the world to see. He has committed himself to skate for Kazakhstan and bring her victory, and nothing has made him prouder than to hear his national anthem play as he watches their sun rise and shine before the rest of the world.

And even though there are far more than Leo alone taking to the ice for the US, he’s still fought to get to the top as hard as all the rest of them. He’s skating for more than just himself, this Otabek knows.

He hangs the jacket up in their room, but not before he presses it to his face to breath in the scent that clings to it—like Leo, it bolsters his strength.

Otabek unplugs his headphones from his laptop and leaves them on the couch, waiting for the creak of a door, or the buzz of his phone. He keeps the volume low, and only listens to it with half an ear. Nearly an hour passes.

But the apartment beyond is quiet and cold, and eventually Otabek gets up, unable to bear the silence and the waiting any longer.

When he enters the room to no answer, it’s to find Leo fast asleep atop the duvet, huddled and curled in on himself. There's something still rigid about him, armour still up fierce against the world. He looks cold.

When Otabek rests his fingers against his forehead, a furnace burns underneath.

Some part of him wants to wake Leo up; to get him to drink from the bottle still full on the bedside cabinet; to get him to take painkillers to mitigate whatever discomfort this fever must be wracking. But he can’t bring himself to rouse him. If he’s comfortable sleeping, it has to be doing him some good.

But Leo still looks cold, so Otabek unfolds the blanket at the end of the bed and drapes it over him. He takes his time tucking it in closer round his body, and makes sure it lies down over his feet.

“Sleep well,” he murmurs. Leo’s face scrunches up and Otabek holds his breath, but he doesn’t stir beyond that and Otabek leaves as quiet as he came in.

If Leo’s napping, he’ll stay asleep for a good few hours. Restlessness tugs ever stronger at Otabek’s limbs, and he flips his laptop shut. Music isn’t enough to keep him occupied now.

Beyond the lounge window, he can hear the wind howling fierce outside.

Out on the road, riding against the wind, his head clears, all the confusion and feelings swirling and muddied inside him rested aside. He has to keep his mind sharp to stay upright and keep well clear of the cars. The line his bike takes is fine, a razor’s edge. But he isn’t afraid of the road. Vehicles are far easier to navigate than feelings.

He drives up through the grey afternoon, clouds looming down heavy as he travels up and up and up, far out of the city and into the hills. He needs to be high, high enough that he can gain some perspective. This is new. This is all new, and navigating it is something he doesn’t know how to do.

And at last, high above Colorado Springs and alone in the wilderness, he pulls his bike over, so he can sit on the hillside and think.

The city sprawls beneath him, and beyond that the great stretches of land, the ones that reach forever into the far vestiges of the sky. So much to explore. So many places still to go. He never expected his life to be one of wandering, but being on the move is more natural to him than breathing, sometimes. Stillness sharpens the clarity of his mind, and he knows he will be able to think about this better up here.

But there’s a reason he’s been trying to avoid thinking about _this._

He doesn’t know what Leo wants. He doesn’t know what he needs. And yet he does—he needs to rest, he needs to talk, he normally does all these things anyway and so Otabek can’t see why he _won’t_ do them even if he is sick.

It’s so much easier when Leo does everything in anticipation of Otabek asking. That’s how it’s always been; Leo can read Otabek as easily as Otabek reads him in kind. But Otabek can’t decide whether to leave Leo to take care of himself and leave alone the walls he’s put up for himself, or whether to push them until they yield. He doesn’t want to make Leo feel useless. But making things easier for him is permissible, surely.

If Leo would say anything about it, he might know better. He wonders if Leo knows how to put words to this either.

The wind howls around him, and carries no answers. Otabek stares out into the sprawl of land beneath him, the vast beautiful emptiness that makes him feel closest to his home so far away—this emptiness that Leo showed him first—and sends up another wish: for something, anything, that can turn the tides and help Leo find his voice again.

 

* * *

 

Otabek stirs from sleep uncomfortable, and buries his face in his pillow. It definitely isn’t morning yet. But there’s a noise infiltrating his quiet, jarring his brain; a racket, a stop-start-stop-start hacking which _isn’t stopping._

He forces his eyes open and peers towards the door, left slightly ajar. His sense come back into focus one by one as he lifts his head to the heaviness of head rush: first his sight, bringing the shapes of the room into clear black-and-grey; then his nose, and he sits up away from the acrid dried-out spit on his pillow; and as his momentary head rush clears, the hacking comes back, close. Very close.

It hits him in an instant, and he can’t move fast enough as he scrambles out of bed and runs to the spare bedroom.

Leo’s doubled over on the bed, coughing and coughing like he’ll never stop. It’s a dry sound, harsh, the kind of cough that grates through your windpipe like sandpaper and digs deep at your chest. Otabek snaps on the light as he comes in, and Leo looks up with streaming eyes. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but another cough breaks through and Otabek rushes over to sit on the bed beside him.

“It… it won’t stop,” says Leo, breathless and teary once the fit passes.

Otabek brushes his hair off his face where it’s stuck to his sweaty forehead. Leo’s still burning to the touch. “Have you had any water?”

“Some, but it’s not—” His voice breaks off into another wave of coughs, and Otabek lays a hand on his back, keeps it steady there until the fit dies down. Leo sniffs and presses a hand to his sternum, like mere willpower can keep the discomfort away.

“It’s not helping,” he says. His voice comes out a whisper. “I just wanna sleep, but I can’t… I can’t.”

He doesn’t need to say more.

Otabek rubs his back, and as Leo leans into him, he starts to think. They don’t have any cough medicine in the house—Otabek can’t stand the stuff and Leo’s barely been coughing before right now. It’s not something he even considered. He’s been wondering if this might be influenza, and not _just a cold,_ but even influenza isn’t supposed to be hacking your lungs out until you tire yourself out so much you can’t sleep.

But the only place Otabek can think to get cough medicine at this hour is one of the emergency pharmacies, and that’s a twenty-five minute drive away. There must be something else in the apartment. Anything to ease Leo’s chest for the night.

Leo bursts out coughing again, pressing his hand to his sternum, and it comes to Otabek. There might be something. Buried in the depths of the _Skating Stuff_ cupboard, there might just be something.

“Leo, will you be alright by yourself for a minute?” he asks, once the coughing’s died down; but he doesn’t get up until Leo looks him in the eye and nods. All around the edges, he’s roughened and worn down, and it breaks Otabek’s heart a little to see.

The apartment’s still dark, lit only by the light in the spare room, but even that dim offering is enough for him as he open the cupboard and casts aside his neat organisation to rummage around. As good as his word; it’s less than a minute before he comes back to the bedroom, in the middle of another coughing fit, and sits back beside Leo on the bed as he wheezes through the last of it.

“Vaporub,” he says, holding up the pot so Leo can see. “I know we normally use it as an antiflam, but it’s good for decongestion. It’s what I always had as a child.”

Leo nods fast, and without prompting, he pulls off the hoodie and t-shirt he’s wearing—both Otabek’s—and Otabek stacks the pillows at the headboard. But when Leo moves to sit against them, he’s shivering, huddled in on himself.

Instinctively, Otabek looks to the floor, and he can’t help but be relieved that Leo’s clothes-stealing habits are proving to be good for something.

“Put this on,” he says, grabbing his long cardigan Leo’s so fond of and holding it out. “It’ll keep you warmer.”

Leo smiles at him—a soft, genuine smile, despite the exhaustion wearing at him—and pulls it on before lying back once more. Otabek settles beside him and uncaps the Vick’s, and with steady fingers starts to apply it to Leo’s chest. He moves it round in slow, deep circles, presses into Leo’s sternum where he seems to be feeling it worst, and pushes him back against the pillows as he does.

“Breathe as best you can,” he says. “It’ll help clear your airways.”

Leo nods, and starts taking deeper breaths, slower ones, tired and juddery. Otabek can feel Leo’s heart beating fast beneath his palm. His skin’s still too warm with a fever not yet broken.

There isn't much in the world that brings Leo down to the point where he stops looking up. He's been running from it and keeping it at bay for too long already, and it seems that this illness wearing at him has finally taken over.

“Is it getting easier to breathe?” he asks a few minutes later.

“A bit.” Leo’s voice is slow and drooping. He blinks, and takes too long to open his eyes again and focus.

“You might be able to sleep better now,” says Otabek, wiping off his fingers. He hesitates, then plunges forward. “Maybe try using a couple of pillows to prop yourself up. If you can elevate your chest it should help with the cough.”

“‘S what Mamá always says,” says Leo, rubbing his hand against his forehead.

In the time it takes Otabek to wash his hands, locate the ibuprofen—now lost again in the newly scattered _Skating Stuff_ cabinet—and run a flannel under the cold tap and wring it out, Leo’s huddled down in bed once more. He has the bedside lamp turned on, and Otabek takes that as his cue to switch the main lights off as he approaches the bed, bearing cold cloth and meds. When Otabek lays the flannel across his forehead, Leo lets out a sigh that’s almost a sob; a tiny noise, frightened and relieved all at once.

“That feels really good,” he says, with a voice like slipping through a crack in the floorboards, and Otabek gives his shoulder a soft squeeze before moving to pull up the blanket where it’s pooled and crumpled halfway along the bed. He crawls across the mattress to sit on Leo’s other side, and as he starts to stroke through Leo’s hair, Leo leans into his touch.

“Sorry I woke you up,” he whispers. “You’re being so nice about all this.”

Otabek adjusts the flannel where it’s slipped, and tries to think how he can tell Leo that this is nothing, nothing at all if it’s for someone he loves.

“I want to help you get better, any way I can.” It’s the best he can do, and Otabek rests his hand on Leo’s cheek and sighs. “You’re not well, Leo. You can let other people take care of you when you’re sick.”

“I know. I… I would, but…” Leo sniffs and stems his nose with his hand. “I don’t want you getting sick too.”

And Otabek exhales.

So that’s what it is.

“I got my flu shot at the end of last month,” he says as he grabs the tissue box and offers it to Leo. “Whatever this is, I should be safe.”

“Yeah, that might’ve been a good idea,” says Leo, muffled from somewhere behind the tissue.

“You were out of town.”

“I was at a competition, I should’ve scheduled it in.”

“You’re human. You’re busy. Leo, I know you don’t want to get me sick, but you need to be resting right now. You’re wearing yourself out more trying to take care of yourself, and I promise, it isn’t a burden on me.”

Leo swallows and looks down, away, avoidant. Otabek puts the tissue box down and pushes back Leo’s fringe until he looks up at last. “I’m looking after you tomorrow, and if you’re still this ill on Monday I’m taking you to the doctor.”

He keeps his gaze steady as Leo looks him up and down, uncertainty bred in his eyes. His cheeks are flushed, and in the silence, Otabek takes up the flannel to sponge down Leo’s face, around his hairline; something to give him some small relief.

And faster than he expects, Leo sighs and brings his hand up to squeeze Otabek’s, and he knows he’s won.

“Don’t wake me up in the morning? I just wanna sleep if I can.”

“Of course,” he says, placing the cloth on the bedside cabinet so he can hold Leo’s hand properly. Leo mouths a _thank you_ at him and shifts his gaze.

“And… could you do some more of that Vaporub thing?”

Otabek nods. And then he thinks, and realises he can negotiate something too. “But you have to eat, even if it’s just some soup. I know you’re not hungry but it’ll help you get better faster if you start eating again, I promise.”

Leo intertwines their fingers and butts his forehead against them.

“You got a deal.”

Otabek strokes back Leo’s hair again; and again, and again, relishing the touch, the quiet.

“Go to sleep, Leo,” he murmurs as Leo’s eyes start to flutter closed. “I’m not leaving.”

It takes a few minutes; but then Leo’s grip on his hand goes slack, and his breathing slows back into the stillness of sleep. A weight lifts from his shoulders, and Otabek breathes easy again.

He reaches over to turn off the bedside light, and considers. He knows, rationally, that he should go back to the master bedroom. A flu vaccine is one thing, but it’s not a solid guarantee he’s immune, especially if this really is just a cold virus. He has Skate Canada coming up in three weeks, and needs to be gearing towards peak shape for that.

But Leo might have another coughing fit in the night; or the fever might get worse; or he might just need a hug. And Otabek won’t leave him waiting that long again.

He resigns himself to the other side of the bed—cuddling Leo would be most ideal, but he has to practice _some_ concern about his own health—and settles in to sleep listening to the hoarse rise and fall of Leo’s chest.

When Leo wakes up at five in the morning coughing again, Otabek is there to comfort him through it.

 

* * *

 

After Leo settles back to sleep, Otabek gets up, no longer tired; makes himself a cup of tea; and takes it into the lounge to think. It’s all well saying he’s going to take care of Leo, but that entails more than just making him take painkillers and soothing him back to sleep.

He knows he needs to make sure Leo’s not getting worse. More importantly, he needs to get Leo to eat. But it’s far too early to call Leo’s home and ask about how to wear down a stubbornly self-sufficient Leo and make him eat, and there aren’t that many other options.

In the meantime, though, the internet is bound to have answers, and so he retrieves his phone. There are a few messages from JJ he must have missed last night, a screed as per usual from Yuri, and Otabek laughs out loud at a photo of the new cat cleaning herself amidst a mess in Yuri’s own living room.

As he’s typing, congratulating the cat, a notification comes through from Instagram. It’s from Guanghong, in the midst of some ridiculous group pose with his rinkmates— _China’s Aces ready for a fierce season!!!_ —and he’s tagged surely no less than twenty skaters. Leo’s at the top of the list, no surprise—but Otabek is strangely touched to see his handle second. And as he hits the like button, it occurs to him that Guanghong knows Leo about as well as anyone in the world.

Guanghong’s been with Leo when he’s been sick before.

He doesn’t have Guanghong’s number, but he doesn’t need it. Otabek knows where Leo keeps his phone when he sleeps.

Guanghong picks up the Facetime call after barely a second. Otabek is very impressed.

“Leo, oh my god, you’re never going to believe what I just heard—so you know how Cao Bin retired like two years—ohhhh! Otabek!”

“Hello.”

Guanghong clears his throat, pink in the face. “Hi.”

“Sorry for startling you.”

“No, no, no, it’s fine! Um…” The tension in Guanghong’s face eases as he keeps walking, and in a few steps, dappled by the evening city lights, he looks nearly back to normal. “Why are you calling me on Leo’s phone? Where’s Leo?”

“Still in bed. I wanted to ask you about… advice.”

“Advice?”

“Leo’s sick, and he’s being stubborn about it.”

Guanghong’s eyes get three times bigger and he stops dead in his tracks.

“He’s sick? Is it serious? Oh god, is he in hospital?”

“No, he’s—”

“Have you taken him to a doctor? Does his coach know?”

“No—it’s just the flu, Guanghong. Nothing worse, I hope. He’s been coughing through the night and I wanted to call you while he was still asleep.”

Guanghong bites his lip. He looks distressed, and Otabek can imagine the feeling; if anything bad were to happen to Yuri, no matter how grown he becomes, Otabek knows he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it. This is a small thing, a temporary thing, but distance makes any small hurt far greater for the unknowing.

“Guanghong, I want your help.”

Guanghong bites his lip and nods. “Okay. I don’t know if I can get out there in less than a day, but I can definitely try—if you just give me two minutes to find a flight—”

“Guanghong, you can’t—”

“You’re right. _Five_ minutes to find a flight—”

“No! No, Guanghong. You don’t need to come to America. Leo would pack you off on the next flight out.”

“But—how can I help if I’m _not there—“_

“I need _advice,_ Guanghong. That’s all. About food.”

“Oh.” Guanghong looks almost _disappointed_ at the news that he doesn’t have to make an emergency mad-dash flight out to Colorado Springs, and some weird alarm-spiked fondness hovers through Otabek. Guanghong really likes high-octane action movies, he tells himself. It’s just wishful thinking, he tells himself. Guanghong wouldn’t actually do it, he tells himself.

“Leo’s lost his appetite, and I don’t know what I should try and get him to eat. I was hoping you might know.”

Guanghong hums, and his mouth twists into a half-pout as his eyes darken with thought. Otabek stretches out on the cushions and sips his tea as he waits, and he’s half-dozed off when Guanghong lets out a little exclamation and looks at him with that same determination Otabek recognises from a dozen competitions clawing his way pick and nail and no holds barred to the podium.

“Give me twenty minutes to get home and I’ll call you back. I think I know just the thing…”

 

* * *

 

“Good morning,” says Otabek, opening the door to the spare bedroom.

“Is it still morning? My phone’s gone walkabout, I can’t find it.” His throat’s less scratchy than the day before, but Leo’s voice is stuffy and his eyes watery where he’s sitting up in bed.

“It’s still morning,” says Otabek as he comes in. “Just after nine.”

Leo’s jaw drops.

“Nine?”

“It’s late for you.”

“I thought I was gonna wake up at noon or something…” Leo pushes his fringe out of his face and breathes a laugh. “Old habits die hard, huh?”

“I guess they do.” Otabek sits beside him and takes Leo’s hand in his, gentle. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Not much.” He laughs, though it comes out clogged. “I feel cold, it’s so weird.”

“I think that’s what being sick does to you.” Otabek smiles, and Leo’s shoulders shake as he smiles back. “I’ve made you breakfast.”

“I don’t have a choice about this, right?”

“You do need to eat. It’s just starch, so it should be easy on your stomach.”

“Forbidden carbs.”

“Nothing less.”

“Hooray.”

But when Otabek brings the congee in, Leo’s eyes soften.

“Is… is that…”

“I called Guanghong and he suggested it. I’ve never made it before, so I hope it’s not terrible… it looks weird, I just hope it’s _edible…”_

Leo stares at the bowl, and his lip wobbles. “You called Guanghong for this?”

“You said he told your mom how to make it. China’s only one time zone ahead of Almaty, and I knew he’d be up. It’s not a big deal.”

Leo shakes his head and sniffs. He ducks his head to blow his nose, but Otabek doesn’t miss the sudden dampness around his eyes. “You’re too good to me.”

“Eat it and then tell me that.”

Leo laughs, but he still looks a little red-eyed as he takes up the spoon Otabek offers him and starts in on it.

“There’s some ginger in there, and a bit of garlic. Guanghong said they might help boost your immune system—and even if they don’t, it makes it taste better.”

“He’s usually right when it comes to food.”

“I’ll let you finish that. And… uh… here’s your phone.”

Leo flips through his phone, and Otabek can see the exact moment when he figures it out and his eyes mist up again.

“Beka…”

Otabek rumples his hand through Leo’s hair. “Eat your congee.”

 

Leo emerges from the bathroom after a shower in fresh pyjamas, blowing his nose and with his hair damp round his face. He’s flopped looking half-asleep on the couch by the time Otabek’s put the laundry on, and only blinks in mild surprise as Otabek comes into the room bearing a hairdryer.

“Sit down,” says Otabek, patting the couch in front of him before he moves to plug the hairdryer into the nearby socket.

“You're really spoiling me today, huh?” Leo lets out a soft sigh of a laugh, but slides off the couch and over to the floor in front of Otabek, phone and cardigan and tissue box in tow.

Otabek quirks an eyebrow at Leo’s back. “I'm taking care of you. That's normal, isn't it?”

“It's a cold, not mono or something.” He can almost hear it when Leo rolls his eyes. “I'm not totally incapacitated.”

“And you’re still tired just from having a shower.”

Leo turns his head, just slightly. “How did you…?”

This is the thing: Leo’s an open book with his emotions, and he’ll tell Otabek in his stance or with his words how he’s feeling before Otabek even has to ask. But there are some things Otabek can’t explain with vibrant body language. This is one; it’s something he knows in his gut.

He turns the hair dryer on, and for some minutes they’re both quiet in the hum of the rotor, the whine and twist of the air shooting out. Otabek fluffs up Leo’s hair as he works the dryer right to the roots, the very bottom layers. His hair is thick and silky, and settles into soft tousles as Otabek lets each twist in his free hand loose. As he finishes the right side and moves on to the back and the left, Leo leans into his leg and rests his cheek on Otabek’s knee.

“You haven’t done this in a while,” says Leo. “It’s nice.”

“I can do it more often if you want.”

“I’m gonna take you up on that one day, you know that, right?”

“You know I’m happy to do it.”

“You really have a thing for it, huh?”

“For what?”

“My _hair._ Of all the things to turn you on…”

“Hey!”

Leo laughs; though it descends into coughing too quickly, it’s bright and true, and Otabek smothers his own laugh as he moves the dryer across to the last sections. It’s more comforting than he could have imagined to see Leo coming back to his usual self.

When at last Otabek’s finished drying Leo’s hair, Leo doesn’t get up, as is his usual wont. His head is still heavy on Otabek’s leg, and Otabek looks him over: the slouch of his shoulders, his breathing, still so hoarse and irregular, his hair all in tangles.

“I can brush your hair, if you’d like.”

Leo nods against his knee. Gently, methodically, Otabek soothes his hair back into its usual soft waves, until it’s gleaming in the mid-morning light. It’s quiet, but—at last—not the tense kind, nor the hollow, scared silence that descends between sniffs and hoarse coughs. This is the quiet that Otabek cherishes the most. It’s tactile, warm; the stroke of the brush through Leo’s hair, the barest of taps as Leo scrolls his Instagram; a tissue pulled from its box, the creak of the sofa as Otabek shifts his seat.

But the quiet slows into tell-tale tired breathing, and Otabek shakes Leo’s shoulder where he’s leaning that bit too heavily on Otabek’s knee.

“Don’t fall asleep on me now,” he says.

“Sorry, Beka.” Leo turns back to face him and grins, sheepish, made perhaps more so by his reddened nose and the dark circles beneath his eyes. “Still kinda tired after last night.”

“Your chest seems better.”

“Don’t speak too soon.” But he shrugs in a way that tells Otabek that it’s not as bad as he fears. “The shower helped. It’s what my dad used to do when I was really little. We’d go into the bathroom, and he’d put the shower on nearly as hot as it would go without turning on the extractor fan to fill the room with steam and loosen my sinuses. I used to draw pictures on the mirror when it was all steamed up. It was better than cough medicine. And I did turn on the fan just before,” he says, and Otabek swallows back the question rising.

“Do you want cough medicine? I can go out and get some if you need.”

“It’s gross.” Leo snorts. “I’ll be fine without it. Some more Vaporub wouldn’t be a bad idea, though,” he says after a few more brush strokes. “I can still feel it, all through here.”

He circles his hand over his chest, over his sternum, and Otabek strokes a hand through his hair.

“Definitely.” A silence hangs, one he wants to fill. And he knows, he knows deep in his heart that whatever he gives to Leo, Leo will always accept. But it’s the _knowing,_ of what Leo wants, of what Leo needs, and he always fears he hasn’t quite got it right.

“Do you want me to stay in here with you, or give you some space…?”

“Beka, I always want to spend time with you!” Leo sneezes, but looks back up at him with those kind, understanding eyes. “What do _you_ need to do?”

Otabek clears his throat. “The _Skating Stuff_ cupboard is very messy.”

Leo’s eyebrows shoot up. “It was really tidy yesterday evening, though.”

“I may have messed it up since then. When I’m finished with that I’m all yours. Make yourself comfortable, and I’ll get you some tea.”

“Um, Beka? Is there any more of that congee left?”

And as he draws the final brush stroke through Leo’s hair, Otabek smiles.

“Plenty.”

 

* * *

 

Only a couple of hours later, Leo’s flagging. Listless where he’s curled up on the couch, he doesn’t have music on, nor the TV nor a podcast nor even his phone out; he’s just huddled into himself, like even his winter pyjamas and the cardigan aren’t enough to keep him warm. He doesn’t even put up a fight when Otabek asks to take his temperature again. It’s just over thirty-nine degrees, and Otabek makes his face settle and stay calm as he looks it over and know it’s bad. But Leo gives him a hard, sad sort of look, and Otabek knows the game’s up.

“It’s gone up again, hasn’t it?”

He sighs, low and long. He can’t lie to Leo about this. “A bit.”

“Is it serious?” And the way Leo’s looking at him, Otabek knows what he’s thinking.

“Not bad enough that we should go to the ER,” he says, “but… I want to bring it down if we can.”

Leo frowns, a small scrunch of his forehead that makes him look years younger.

“I took ibuprofen an hour ago,” he says. Otabek _tsks._ Painkillers would help, he knows.

“Hey…” Leo pushes himself a little more upright. “That cold flannel you used last night felt really good. Do you think that would work?”

“It might. It’s worth a try, anyway, isn’t it?”

As Leo starts to sit up, Otabek thumbs a hand through his hair, and pushes him to lie back down.

“Let me.”

And with a sheepish laugh, Leo does.

Otabek forces himself to take his time wetting the flannels and wringing them out. A few minutes isn’t going to matter here or there, he knows this; yet something inside him wants to hurry, doesn’t want Leo to suffer through the fever any longer than he has to. And he knows too that a cold compress by itself won’t be enough to bring the fever down; but anything, anything at all right now will be good.

Back in the living room, Otabek lays one of the flannels over Leo’s forehead, and takes the other and begins to sponge over his face and neck.

“How does this feel?” he murmurs.

“It’s nice.” His eyes are closed, but Leo quirks a smile. “This is the point where I say I can do this for myself, isn’t it?”

Otabek considers this. He considers everything Leo’s been doing up until he woke Otabek coughing late in the night, and wonders.

“Why have you been trying to look after yourself like this all this time?” he asks, keeping his voice soft as he circles the flannel over Leo’s neck. “I can’t imagine your family ever let you do that.”

Leo laughs, a breath of a laugh. It comes out almost like a sniff. “Guilty as charged.”

“So why with me?”

And somewhere in there, Otabek knows there’s an unspoken _do I matter less? Do you think that little of me that I can’t take care of you when you’re not feeling well?_

“I told you last night. I didn’t want to get you sick.” And Leo sighs. “You remember Four Continents, about… what, three years ago?”

Much as he’s tried to forget, Otabek remembers, all too well.

“You came down with something bad, and you barely made it through your short program. I remember seeing you being taken through to the medical area after, and… you looked so awful, Beka. You looked grey, you could barely hold yourself upright and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I know you push through that kind of stuff because you’re _you,_ but that doesn’t mean anyone expects you to do that. And I didn’t want to be the reason you went through something like that again. I thought about going back to my parents’ place while I was still ill, but I’d just be spreading it to them and my little sisters, so I figured just as long as I stayed in the spare bedroom here…”

And Otabek can’t stop the sigh of relief that escapes him, and he leaves the flannel aside for a second to stroke through Leo’s hair once, twice, solid and sure like he’s reassuring the both of them.

“I did get my flu shot last month.”

“I know that now.”

“And this isn’t a big place. Whatever bugs you’ve got, I’m going to get, and that goes both ways.”

“Yeah…” Leo’s legs curl up closer on the couch. “That makes sense.”

“You’d let your parents take care of you, right?”

“Yes.”

“So why not me?”

It’s quiet. But Otabek can wait. He’s good at waiting. And in time, very quietly, Leo speaks.

“I don’t want you to _have_ to look after me.”

He swallows, and his next words come out tentative, heavy. “And after last year—”

 _And after last year_ says so much, too much, and Otabek knows where he stands now. This isn’t about Leo having flu right before the season starts. This isn’t just about now. This is about a lot of things, things that have been set in motion for months, things beyond either of their control, things which have led to so many mountains and yet so much good in their lives—and yet, despite all that, there’s still the fact that last year happened. And, as it seems, Leo’s still holding onto that.

“This isn’t a zero-sum thing,” he says quietly, picking up the flannel and moving it over Leo’s cheeks again. “I helped you last year because I wanted to. You needed someone who understood. I’m looking after you now because you’re going to make yourself worse if you’re not resting. And besides… I know you’re going to look after me if I ever get sick. I know that because that’s just who you are.”

Leo opens his eyes, clear and soft, and the look he gives Otabek is true, understanding, and it reminds Otabek, as it ever does, just how he fell in love.

“Why are you always right?”

“Because I don’t have my head in the clouds. Also, I’ve had to look after myself when I’ve been sick before. It’s not great.”

“It’s not a zero-sum thing,” murmurs Leo.

“Exactly.” Otabek reaches for Leo’s hand and squeezes it. “You’re not weak for letting someone else take care of you.”

It’s quiet as he keeps his cloth moving steady over Leo’s neck. But he feels Leo’s fingers thread through his own, calloused and firm.

“Not weak when you talk about it.”

“Right.” Otabek glances at the cloth in his hand. “How does this feel? I don’t know how long you’re supposed to do this for…”

“It’s like ice, right? Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off. If it feels good I can keep it on for longer. You could google it.”

“You know what how it feels best. Just let me know when you want me to stop.”

Leo’s warm hand squeezes his once more, and Otabek knows he will.

 

The afternoon lengthens in bright sunlight towards dusk, and it casts long, warm shadows over the lounge, and clings comforting over Otabek and Leo where they’re sprawled on the couch. Leo’s resting with his head on Otabek’s chest, and Otabek threads his hair through his fingers. One of Otabek’s quiet playlists is hooked up to the stereo, and as the beats pulse along, he thinks to himself that it’s been an age since they last had this sort of quiet time with just them and the music on a sleepy Sunday.

“I was going to take you on a date this weekend,” he says, soft into the ambience.

“A _date?”_ Leo laughs. “An actual date?”

His cheeks flush warm, but he does his best to keep his composure.

“It wasn’t going to be much. Just… you know…” He sighs. “Going out on the motorbike… maybe a picnic… star-gazing…”

“That sounds so _romantic,_ Otabek.” And Leo squeezes him round the middle. “Sorry this happened instead.”

“Don’t apologise. This is good.”

“What, are we going to fall asleep on the couch together or something?”

“That would be terrible for both of us. My back wouldn’t like me for it in the morning.”

Leo breaks out into a cough, and Otabek tenses, ready to help him sit up, but it passes in a matter of seconds and Leo settles back down with a shake of his head. “Details. Hey, that romantic motorbike-stargazing-date can always happen once you’re back from Canada, right?”

“Maybe.” Otabek checks his watch. They’ve been lying here for a while, and he squeezes Leo’s shoulder.

“Are you comfortable?” he murmurs.

“Feel like ‘m falling asleep,” says Leo, and Otabek squeezes him briefly with his free hand.

“Want me to make up the bed?”

“You’re a good pillow.”

“I can’t be that comfortable.”

“You’re _warm,”_ says Leo, like he’s sealing the argument; and that, Otabek can’t refute. Leo’s warm, always, even more so with the fever, and buried half-under a blanket; and lying on top of Otabek, it follows that Otabek is warm as well.

“Feeling like you’ll go to practice tomorrow?”

Leo hums low in his chest, a _disagreeing_ sort of hum. “Maybe one more day at home so I don’t cough up gunk all over the rink.”

“Thought you needed more practice.”

“Yeah…” Leo heaves a sigh. “Maybe not _that_ much more practice.”

“You’ve changed your tune.”

“I’m too tired to think about skating,” admits Leo, and he yawns and worms up on Otabek’s chest. “I think you were right, for what it’s worth.”

“Right about what?”

“Why I couldn’t do the death drop.”

“You were never blocked.”

“Just sick. Right?”

“I often am.”

“So modest.”

“So you’re _not_ going to overwork yourself while you’re getting better?”

“No. I’ve been thinking about it, and I figure I’ve got a home crowd, and—“ He yawns again. “And a gold at Nebelhorn. Even if I can’t practice much before then, I gotta be confident, right?”

“You’re feeling better.”

“You think so? I still feel pretty gross…”

And Otabek isn’t one hundred percent sure—not even thirty-eight-point-four percent sure—but the one thing he’s always known, when Leo’s on top of his game, is that he’s not afraid to announce it to the world. He knows how to get himself back in the right headspace to compete every time. It’s one of the things Otabek admires best about him.

“I think your fever’s gone down,” he says, brushing his fingers across Leo’s forehead and stroking his hair back.

“About time,” Leo mumbles. His eyes are closed, have closed sometime when Otabek missed it.

“Don’t fall asleep on me just yet.”

“’M not falling asleep,” says Leo sleepily. Otabek reaches down and tugs the blanket higher over him, and watches the dust motes play gold above the fibres. Leo clings to him a little tighter, and as the minutes ease by, Otabek closes his eyes.

Maybe they can fall asleep on the couch together this once. The gods above know they deserve it.

 

* * *

 

For once, it’s Otabek who drives Leo out to the airport. Leo gives in gracefully when Otabek insists on bringing his suitcase in, but is staunch about keeping his backpack in place, and he’s so much steadier now, Otabek doesn’t fight it.

Nadine’s on the same flight, but accompanying one of her other students making her senior debut this season, so Leo’s managing this flight alone. It’s early, before daybreak, and he’s arranged a later start for training, so Otabek accompanies Leo into the terminal once he’s checked in. Leo leads him to the seats overlooking the tarmac, and they sit together in quiet as the rising airport flows and hums around them. Leo’s got his music on, settling into his competition mindset, and Otabek knows better than to distract him.

But Leo’s hand is firmly intertwined in his own, and there’s something about the closeness of his shoulders, and how his hair is loose, not tied, that says he’s glad Otabek’s staying.

As if he would let Leo leave without saying a proper goodbye.

It takes a long time, the kind that feels like no time at all, before the first call comes for Leo’s flight. There’s no rush—the queues are bound to be long—and Leo takes his time getting up, making sure he’s got everything together. He's clad in one of Otabek's warmest jumpers, with his own denim jacket overtop, and he smiles patiently as Otabek walks through his checklist of Prevention Measures For Leo Not Picking Up Another Virus On The Plane.

“Flu mask?”

Leo taps his backpack.

“Right here.”

“Spare meds in case you get a headache?”

“Here. And…” He pulls a little green-and-white package from his pocket. “Gum to pop my ears for the landing.”

“Good. Chapstick?”

“Got a fresh one the other day, like you asked.”

“Don't share it with anyone.”

“Beka, it was a _cold,_ not mono. It's ten to one there'll be _something_ going around at the competition.”

“I’m pretty sure it was flu, and I don’t care what’s going round at the competition, _you_ aren't going to be any part of it. Make sure you get a good sleep tonight.”

“I mean, if Phichit doesn’t drag me out clubbing—kidding, kidding! I’ll go to bed early, don’t worry about it.”

He’s been—very gradually—sleeping better since last weekend, although the coughing’s taking a while to go away. Leo’s GP said it’s the flu taking a while to shake itself, probably from the exertion of training full-tilt again, that it’s nothing to worry about, but Otabek’s been worrying over it anyway. Sleepless nights are not what Leo needs right before this competition.

And because in the event of a bad coughing fit Otabek will be 2630 kilometres and two time zones away, he's packed one of his bears into Leo's suitcase, just in case. Some company, with a tag around its neck reminding Leo to apply VapoRub or take some of the dreaded cough medicine. And in the event that nothing like that happens, Leo likes having someone to cuddle while he sleeps; Otabek doesn't see why a _something_ shouldn't suffice instead.

Leo sniffs, a tell-tale sound—his nose is still streaming on and off—and Otabek remembers the most important thing of all. Even as Leo’s stemming his nose with the back of his hand, he digs it out of his pocket.

“For the plane,” he says, pressing a ten-pack of tissues into Leo’s hand. Leo all but snatches it away, rips into the packet and blows, but above the tissue his eyes are bright and smiling.

“Have I ever,” he says, voice perhaps even warmer, “told you just how great you are?”

Otabek’s breath catches in his throat. Leo’s utterly sincere, as he ever is, but especially about Otabek, and his words make his ears burn. He ducks his gaze and plunges his hands in his pockets.

“Come back without another cold and tell me then.”

Leo laughs. “You got it.”

“Take care. Don’t overwork yourself.”

“Somehow I don’t think I’m gonna peak early this time round,” says Leo wryly.

Otabek grins. “Enjoy yourself out there.”

“I will.”

And then there’s a silence. Another call comes for Leo’s flight, echoing through the halls, amongst the thousand people here; and it all fades away, into that soft, careful kind of quiet.

“Beka?”

His mouth’s dry. There are a hundred things, a thousand things he wants to say; or, perhaps, a more reasonable number. Like ten, nearly the number of years they’ve known each other. Or five, the months they’ve lived together and let down their walls, one by one. Maybe only one, which in the end, it all comes down to. The words weigh on the tip of his tongue.

And it’s like Leo can read his mind, because that look comes over his face, that one infinitely more tender than even his softest smile. He steps forward and clasps Otabek into a hug. Otabek presses a tiny kiss to Leo’s jawline, and feels Leo’s hand stroke gentle across his undercut.

“I love you so much.” A breath; a kiss to his cheek, rough-edged and sweet like cola. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

Luck has nothing to do with it, bar one careful choice he made at age fourteen; the one piece of happenstance that brought them together. And even so, if luck really exists like that, Otabek knows that _he_ is the lucky one.

Hand in hand, they walk to the security gate, and Otabek lets Leo go with a little push. He’s got better things to head towards than a drawn-out goodbye, and they both know it.

“See you on Monday,” says Otabek.

“Text me when you’re here to pick me up. And clear a space on the walls for a medal, hey?” says Leo, walking backwards with a flash of a smile.

“I'll make room for two.”

And at this, Leo laughs out loud. “Only two?”

It’s sharp and alive, the current that cuts through him—the excitement of great things to come.

“Three, then. Each.”

And as Leo approaches the security area, and starts to empty his pockets of phone and earbuds and that promise of gleaming metal to come, Otabek heads back towards the car and pulls out his phone as he exits the terminal. He still has something he needs to say.

 _**To: Leo** **♥** _  
_Safe flight. I love you too, Leo._

 _**From: Leo** **♥** _  
_ <3333333_

**Author's Note:**

> (look, when I started this I _swear_ I did not intend it to end up 19k words long... 4/5k max, I thought... then 10k max... then it spiralled—)
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading if you got this far! Much love for joining me in my little rare-canoe (because in reality this isn't even big enough to be a rare-yacht let alone a full-blown ship haha) ♥ but anyway this was an exceedingly fun project to work on (even if it did give me a cold along the way) and it gives me great joy to finally put it out in the world, ty for reading and sharing a little of the LeoBeka love ♥♥♥


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